A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, follows, reblogs, and likes on Tumblr. I'm sorry that I haven't responded for the reviews for the last chapter, but please know that I have read and appreciate, covet, each one. Thank you! Especially to the Guest Reviewers who I cannot thank personally: Thank You!

All of the names used in this story for residents of the workhouse are taken from real workhouse residents. Through research I've selected real names and real situations to add authenticity to the story. The character of "Friend Carter" in this chapter is one such example. Also, residents of the workhouses were called inmates in the official literature; that speaks volumes about the system.

After this chapter, we will begin to see Downton characters appear more frequently again.

Chapter Eight

The Post Office

Three months later ..

The new Matron, Mrs. Brown, a widower of some years, isn't up to snuff. Charles cannot make heads nor tails out of her ledgers; endless columns of numbers and names running together nonsensically. Trying to untangle the figures in Mrs. Brown's order book is akin to picking out the threads of a tangled spider's web – impossible. Though the days he spent with his parents were a balm to his injured heart, the frustration he presently feels is quickly eroding the good will that he had been building since leaving the grounds of the Abbey.

Charles huffs in frustration as he looks around his office and sees a light coating of dust on the filing cabinet beside his desk. Clearly, Mrs. Brown does not have a handle on her girls. They may be "residents" of the workhouse, but they are to properly complete the task to which they've been assigned. And much to Charles's consternation, Mrs. Brown isn't making her rounds at the prescribed times often at quarter past the hour instead of on the hour as is scheduled. For the workhouse to operate at maximum efficiency Charles argues, everything must adhere to the schedule that he's set out.

Charles leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand across his brow. He knows that he's made a mistake in hiring Mrs. Brown and can only attribute the mistake to hiring her whilst not in his right mind being overcome with grief. She's a kind woman, but unfit for the job.

"Mrs. Brown," he begins, his fingers steepled atop his office desk. "We have a precise schedule for the day so that order is kept among both staff and those poor unfortunate people that we help. If we do not follow that schedule, then chaos will ensue and we cannot have chaos. You must set the example Mrs. Brown." Charles sets quite the imposing figure in his black suit, starched white shirt and collar, and his tightly knotted black tie. His countenance is serious, stern even, and his voice deep and commanding. Mrs. Brown is the second Matron hired since Sarah's death six months ago and Charles has found fault with her at every turn.

"Mr. Carson, I do my best to attend to all of my duties in the most expeditious manner possible. I'm not sure what more that I can do," Mrs. Brown replies meekly.

"Well, then …" Charles replies, his jaw set firmly, his head tilted, and eyes boring into hers.

"I see," she replies. "Shall I work out a notice?"

"I don't think that will be necessary. You'll have two weeks' severance," he replies cooly.

Mrs. Brown leaves without so much as another word and closes the door to Charles's office behind her. Charles sits in silence for several long moments before he reaches for the photograph on his desk and pulls it close. Gently, he smoothes a finger over the edge of the frame and he sighs. He wonders if life will ever be the same again. If he will ever be the same again. With a thud, Charles closes Mrs. Brown's ledger and pushes it to the side of his desk. He'll try to decipher it later after he's had a sandwich and a cup of strong, black coffee. He pushes back from his desk and grabs his overcoat and hat from the rack by the door then makes his way to find Mr. Turner, the porter.

Charles checks with Mr. Turner that everything is in order, that the male inmates are working to crush stones; Downton's roads seem to always need resurfacing, potholes and grooves from carts and buggies need filling. Some of the men are assigned to break gypsum to be sold for a profit to workmen who plastered walls for a living wage. The infirm, the men who are either too old to swing an ax and chop wood or too old to man the grindstone to mill corn, work on simple, mindless tasks. Charles feels sorry for them especially old Friend Carter, who lost his farm and then checked himself into the workhouse so he'd not be a burden to his family in his old age.

"Good morning, Friend," Charles says warmly with a pat to the older man's shoulder.

"Good morning Mr. Carson. How are you?" Friend and Charles share a knowing look. Friend lost his wife just two years ago and was one of the first to express his sympathies to Charles and one of the few "residents" of the workhouse to attend the funeral.

"I'm doing better," Charles offers with a small smile and a nod.

"I hope so, Mr. Carson and I hope that I'm not being impertinent," the old man offers, "but if I might offer you a bit of advice?" Charles nods, signaling Mr. Carter to continue. "You have a straightforward choice. You must choose … either life or death. And I don't think that your wife, nor mine would have wanted us to choose the second. They loved us too much."

Charles can't stop the tears that spring to his eyes. He claps old Friend Carter on the back and thanks him for his wisdom, assuring him that his candor was no impertinence. Charles is better, the pain isn't quite so sharp as it once was, though he thinks often of Sarah and the little boy she bore.

Politely excusing himself, Charles sets out for the village. With every footstep he thinks of Friend Carter, the man who'd lost so much, but refuses to let unhappiness pull him under.

The bouquet of flowers rests against the singular headstone that marks the grave of mother and son. Sarah and Charlie are buried together with Charlie cradled in the arms of his loving mum. Charles stands stock still before the monument that has been freshly fixed into place. "Six months," Mr, Mosley senior, keeper of the church grounds and overseer of the cemetery, told him. "Six months for the grave to settle before the stone can be set."

Six months. In some ways, it seems as if it were just yesterday; in others it seems an eternity. Charles stares at the monument and for the first time since the funeral the truth hits home. While his memories live in his heart, his past is buried in the churchyard. The words of Mr. Carter whir through his mind. You must choose … either life or death.

Thomas Wigan fills the pigeonholes with letters, bills, and payments to creditors as his wife Ellen works the front desk and greets patrons. Ellen Wigan would never be caught behind the scenes, in the back room, where the work is monotonous, the motions repetitive and mind numbing; no, she leaves that to her husband who doesn't seem to mind. Ellen Wigan is a nosy sort and a gossip who spreads the information she gleans from the chit-chat she overhears among those who don't realize that she's listening.

The post office is busy even for a Wednesday and Charles queues with the rest of the crowd. He pulls the paper with the wording for the advertisement for the position of matron from the breast pocket of his coat and reads over it again. Mr. Wigan is always good to post employment advertisements on the notice board inside the post office and Charles has another for the notice board outside. Charles sighs as he hears Mrs. Wigan whispering with Mrs. Adams. He only hears snippets of their conversation.

The topic of their conversation is Lady Jane Liddle-Smith , the wife of Lord William Liddle-Smith who is twenty-years her senior at the age of fifty. Lady Jane has become the source of drawing room gossip all over the county and even those in the workhouse have whispered about her. From what Charles gathers Lady Jane has been carrying on with a man of the cloth a few towns over; their clandestine meetings at the rectory are the talk of the village.

"Midnight communion I suppose," Mrs. Wigan sniggers.

"If that woman's tongue wags much harder, I think that it might well fall off." The melodic Scottish drawl voice floats over Charles's shoulder. He cannot help but chuckle at the exasperated sentiment expressed by the woman behind him as he turns to greet her.

"And wouldn't we all be grateful for that," he affirms. "Good morning Miss Hughes," he greets Elsie with a nod of the head.

"Good morning Mr. Carson, it's nice to see you. I hope that you're well," she replies. Elsie thinks that Mr. Carson does look well; at least, he looks much better than he has at church the past several months at church. His smile, which she's rarely seen, is quite a treat; the slightest tug of his lips upward, his cheeks are pink and full, and his eyes are soft.

"I'm well, Miss Hughes" Charles replies.

"That's good to hear Mr. Carson." Elsie is genuinely pleased for Charles's improved state.

Though she cannot fathom the loss of a spouse and a child, she knows what it is to feel despair and pain. Her heart breaks for poor Becky who hasn't spoken much since the death of their mother. If she was shy and quiet before, she is almost silent now. Elsie has noticed that increasingly more often, Becky wraps her arms tightly around herself and rocks herself until she is soothed. The bright spot in Becky's day seems to be when she is with Jane's boy, Robbie; Elsie marvels at her sister's gentleness with the boy.

Charles makes his way to the front of the line where Mrs. Wigan tries strike up conversation and Elsie cannot help but snigger a bit as Charles politely asks for her husband. A bit put out, the postmistress huffs and turns to go find her husband who quickly appears and takes care begins to take care of Charles's business. The two men talk amiably and Mrs. Wigan calls Elsie up to the counter beside Charles.

"Good morning Miss Hughes."

"Good morning Mrs. Wigan," Elsie replies as she reaches into her handbag to retrieve the letters that she is posting.

"I haven't seen your sister out and about much," the postmistress inquires as she accepts the letters that Elsie passes across the counter to her. "Is she … all right?" The last words are a whisper and Elsie bristles at the obviously indelicate insinuation.

"She is, Mrs. Wigan. Thank you for asking," Elsie answers tersely. She knows that the woman is fishing, but Elsie is damned if she'll make Becky the fodder for local gossip. She's never been ashamed of her sister, Becky is as intelligent as any other in her own way, but Elsie knows that people don't readily accept those who are different and she'll not subject Becky to the whispers of the village children and their parents.

While she waits for Mrs. Wigan to retrieve the stamps that she's purchased, Elsie feels a slight nudge against her arm and looks over to Mr. Carson who sheepishly begs her pardon as he replaces his wallet in his pocket and re-buttons his overcoat. Elsie notices that his cheeks have the sweetest blush and she feels her own respond in kind. It's been an age since a man has made her blush and she hasn't the faintest notion why just a mere glance and a brush of Mr. Carson's arm has made her unsteady. Though she sits next to Charles and his parents at church services, they've barely spoken more than five minutes to one another at any given time and certainly discussed nothing personal.

Charles completes his business and says a word of thanks to Mr. Wigan before bidding good day and making his past those remaining in line. Though he's no reason to wait outside the post office as he's given the advertisement to Mr. Wigan, Charles finds himself absentmindedly scanning the notice board himself.

"A penny for them Mr. Carson," Elsie calls as she walks up beside him.

"I'm not sure that they are worth as much," he chuckles.

"I doubt that," she replies sincerely.

Charles looks down at his feet and shuffles them a bit. He's nervous, not that the woman standing before him makes him nervous, quite the opposite, but it's been ages since he's thought of asking a woman to share a pot of tea and conversation. But Elsie Hughes is a woman with kind eyes and something tells him that she has a sympathetic spirit about her, that she perhaps has a damaged heart as well.

"Miss Hughes," he stammers, "would you care to join me for cup of tea at Mrs. Sloane's shop?"

tbc ...